The Girl I Was Before

by Ginger Scott

  The body of the driver, who supposedly died in the crash, was actually a homeless man found drunk in a downtown alley earlier that day. Detective Christo was told to take care of things—like he’d done for Chandra’s other indiscretions—though those other things were usually tickets and stops for driving under the influence. Christo split his payoff with the two beat cops who responded to the call. They helped him bludgeon to death the homeless man, making his body appear to have been the one involved. They got rid of Chandra’s car, paid off anyone they thought would talk, and made sure Chandra was delivered to her father in Texas, more than four hundred miles away from her crime.

  Detective Hornsby was off that day. But he knew my father from church, and when he heard the news, he wanted to be the one to deliver it to my mother. He ruined our lives that day—Michael and Bethany Orr were dead. Every loose end was paid for and tied up before he had a chance to do anything but pity us and offer us a card with his name on it and a false condolence to call him if there was anything he could do.

  An entire state away, the story was unraveling differently, though. Martin Campbell was learning that his daughter from one marriage had killed his daughter from another—and he spent thousands of dollars to make it all disappear. To ease his guilt, he threatened to disown Chandra, too, just as he’d always done with problems in his life—cut the ties that bind. But Chandra is so much like her father. She threatened to tell the truth, so he kept his mouth shut.

  As evil as she is, Chandra is also capable of some human emotions—namely, guilt. That’s why she visited. That’s why she was drunk for Leah’s birthday. And that’s why Leah’s trust fund will never go away. That money is there for insurance, should I ever start to question things. I bet if I did, that money would have doubled, and kept doubling until I shut my mouth.

  Blood money.

  Bethany was always right. That money—it’s worthless.

  And I don’t want Leah to have any part of it any more.

  Chapter 18

  Houston

  Tragedies come in two phases—the first one that shocks you, rocks your earth, murders your soul, and leaves you lifeless—all without warning. Then there’s the second phase, the one that you see coming. This phase is full of process, full of justice—or failed justice—and it feels…endless.

  Meetings with lawyers and police officials dictated the first two weeks after the arrest. Any moments in between were filled with hounding requests from the media. The only benefit of the media’s constant calling, emailing, texting, and camping outside our house was that it distracted my mom from despair. Instead of walking through the house listlessly, barely sleeping, and hardly eating—which she did for two days—she became obsessed with fending off reporters. Our family hasn’t been quoted in a single story, and our lawyer quickly corrected the few reports that did attempt to quote us.

  We have a lawyer. This is something I’m pretty sure we can’t afford. Unless he wins—in which case we’ll be able to literally buy him and mount him on our wall.

  That’s the other thing, though. This process—a trial, more investigations, more visits from the media—could go on for years. That’s what the lawyer-we-can’t-afford told us. We don’t pay him until the end, so I’m not really sure how this is a good deal for him.

  The meetings, the calls, the feeling of urgency—that all went away. It left weeks ago. And for the last month, our lives have gone back to normal. It feels like life before we knew any better. Only we do know better, and there’s this heavy weight that’s constantly hovering because of that. As much as the day feels like any other day, it also always feels like the bottom of it all is about to drop out.

  Leah hasn’t asked any questions, but she senses something is different. I had to leave work early last week to pick her up from the daycare at my mom’s church. She punched a boy. Apparently, he called her babe, and she did not like that. Part of me was thrilled. His parents were less thrilled, though, so Leah was sent home. My mom couldn’t leave work, and I ended up missing a full day of class. It was Spanish; I’m failing it anyhow. I never got to take advantage of Paige’s tutoring.

  I miss the way her tongue could trill an R. Her tongue. Her.

  I pass the library every day, even the days I don’t have to come to campus. I come anyway. I always look, and sometimes she’s there. Our eyes meet, and we wave. Not a big one, just small gestures with our hands, acknowledgements that we’re looking at each other.

  Really…we’re looking for each other.

  I’m always looking for her. I’m starting to wonder if that will ever stop.

  Our last conversation was the one on my doorstep, when the truth came out and swallowed my mother and me whole. The fact that Paige came—that she showed up the minute she heard the news of Martin’s arrest—meant so much. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but that act—it was so selfless. She wasn’t there for any reason other than to make sure we were okay…to make sure we were breathing and surviving this news. She was there because part of her loves me, loves us. I think she realized it then, too, but it’s been nothing but quiet between us ever since. We just can’t seem to go back to that feeling, to talk about it. We both know it’s there, but there’s just too much of everything else in the way.

  “Dude, sandwich me,” Casey says, snapping me back from the thoughts I tend to drift to lately. I spend a lot of time replaying every visit from Cee Cee—every moment of finding out our family was cut in half. I try to recall the face of each person we talked to and the words on every paper we signed. We never questioned anything. But why would we? Who gets news like that and starts asking questions about crooked cops and missing homeless men? Instead, we grieved.

  “You are aware that sandwich is not a verb, right?” I ask, slicing a hoagie roll and lathering both sides with mayonnaise. I’ve been back to work for two weeks. Chuck insisted I take some time. And though I probably would have been able to return after a week, I think it’s good for my mom that I was home more often. She’s back at the church now, too. Routine is the best kind of savior.

  “Your sandwiches are verbs, man,” Casey says, sliding up to sit on the counter, but quickly leaping down when Chuck walks out from the back room.

  “Why are you here?” Chuck asks, not bothering to look at Casey.

  “I’m applying for a job,” Casey jokes. I think part of him loves how much Chuck can’t stand him.

  “Don’t bother; you’re fired,” Chuck says, pulling together a stack of binders from under the weigh station and continuing on to his office, never once glancing at my friend.

  “He’ll love me one day. You just wait—Casey Coffield, employee of the month,” he says, pulling one of the slices of pepperoni away from the bread and stuffing it in his mouth.

  I laugh as I finish his sandwich, deciding to cut it in half and share it with him. It’s late afternoon, and my stomach is growling. The campus is just coming off spring break, so we’ve been dead for the last several days. And the library—it’s been empty.

  I nod to Casey to follow me to a table in the break room. Chuck’s office door is closed, so he won’t notice. We both dive in and start eating as soon as we sit down.

  “Dude, I’m telling you,” Casey says through a full mouth. “You really should have gone to culinary school. You missed your calling.”

  I chuckle then take a bite of my own. Unlike Casey, I chew most of it before answering. “I’m pretty sure sandwiches don’t qualify as culinary,” I say.

  “Says you,” he mumbles.

  We both concentrate on finishing our food for the next few minutes, an early afternoon Thunder game playing on the radio, filling our silence. Casey finishes first, crumpling up the paper for his sandwich then pushing away from the table, his hands folded behind his head while he watches me.

  “So are you going to wear that?” he asks. I look down at my apron, my nametag, green store-shirt, and gray jeans with flour handprints on my legs.

  “I’m at work, jack-ass
. What else would I wear?” I ask, standing and picking up our trash, encouraging Casey to follow me out to the deli. Chuck will only be distracted for so long.

  “Yeah, you’re at work now, but I meant later,” he says. Smart-ass is stamped all over his face.

  “And what is later?” I ask, not sure I really want to know.

  “You’ve got a date,” he says, reaching across me to grab two more slices of pepperoni before moving to the other side of the counter.

  “First, stop that—your hands are fucking disgusting. And two, I do not have a date,” I say, very firm about both.

  “I washed my hands,” he says.

  “When? Last year?” I laugh.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” He exaggerates each word. “And you do have a date. Her name’s…” He stops talking so he can pull a paper from his back pocket. He has to unfold it, which seems to take him for-fucking-ever! “Tracey. That’s right!”

  I snatch the paper from his hands and gaze at a badly-printed photo of a girl that looks like she’s maybe my age. Her hair is blue, though I think maybe that’s because Casey’s printer is jacked. I look at the top of the page and catch the logo and name for the website, FindYourNextGreatLove.com.

  “Oh hell no,” I say, tossing the paper back to him. I am not going on a date with someone Casey needs to unfold to remember. I’m not going on a date with anyone!

  “What? You don’t think Tracey’s pretty?” he asks, picking the paper up from the floor and looking at it closely. “She’s a nursing student at McConnell. A junior who likes going to concerts, riding horses, and Thunder basketball. I mean come on…what’s not to love?”

  “Casey, what were you thinking?” I ask. I’m actually a little pissed off he set up a dating profile without telling me, unless…he wasn’t joking that day at his house. “Wait…how many sites am I on?”

  “Only this one,” he says. He won’t look at me.

  “Case,” I warn.

  “Okay, and maybe one or two others,” he admits. I push back to lean against the opposite counter, on instinct my hands pull at my hair. “You shouldn’t touch your hair while you’re working with food, man. Really…that’s unsanitary.”

  “I’m about to punch you,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Nah…you love me,” he chuckles. I really want to hit him. And right now—no. No, I don’t love him.

  “You need to fix this date thing, or whatever. Just go wherever I’m supposed to meet this…”

  “Tracey,” he fills in her name, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

  I sigh. “Just go and tell her there was a mistake. Tell her there was a glitch or something. Or better yet…you date her.”

  “No can do,” he says, pulling his backpack up from the place he slid it next to the counter, tucking his arms under both straps. “I have a date with Holly.”

  “I thought Eli was seeing Holly?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head hurts now.

  “He was. Turns out she wasn’t giving me free coffee because I was his roommate though. She was hooking me up because she wants some of this,” he says, shrugging at himself. I’m not even sure how you shrug at yourself.

  “Wow,” I say, mocking his confidence. Casey isn’t a bad-looking dude. He has a style—one of those super-hip looks with tight jeans, Converse shoes, and old concert T-shirts from bands his parents liked. “Not cool to Eli, dude. Not cool.”

  “He doesn’t care. She’s got a lot of sisters, and I guess he met one that he likes better,” Casey shrugs. What the fuck is wrong with dating today?

  “Okay, well, before you go see Holly, stop in at wherever you said I’d be, and fix this,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry man,” he says through twisted lips, pretending he really cares that he can’t help me out of the mess he made. “I’m late as it is. She’ll meet you at Sally’s at six. I made it a dinner date, so that way…ya know…if it doesn’t go well or whatever. Or…if it goes really well.”

  “You are such a dick,” I say blankly.

  “Nah. I’m not,” he says. He believes it, and I want to punch him even more now. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for him, he leaves, and I’m left with nothing other than a deep wrinkle between my eyes, sick stomach, closed throat, and complete and utter sense of dread. I look at my watch to see it’s almost five. I get off in half an hour, and then I’ll have thirty minutes to race home to change, explain this debacle to my mom, and meet some innocent girl at a burger joint, staying just long enough not to feel like a complete tool wagon, but not so long that it gives her any false impressions.

  Then, I’ll call Casey, find out where he is, and drive there so I can punch him.

  Paige

  I wonder if this is the new norm—Ty goes everywhere my sister goes. He came home with us for spring break. Granted, the California beaches are pretty great for spring break, but still. He’s everywhere. As annoying as it is that he’s everywhere, he and I have also started to bond a little. Not so much that I’m okay with the fact that he was in our dorm room at five thirty this morning, but enough that I don’t want to stab him for waking me up early so he and Cass could go workout. I just want to make him suffer a little. No, that’s a lie. I still want to stab him. But I’ll feel bad about it.

  “You’re buying,” I say, nudging Ty’s shoulder as we all stuff into the dorm elevator.

  “What? You’re still mad I wrecked your beauty sleep, aren’t you? What if I said you don’t need it; that you’re beautiful without it,” Ty says, laying his southern accent on a little thicker than normal. I’m doing my best to sneer at him while Nate, Rowe, and Cass watch, but his fucking charming smile cracks my armor, and I eventually give in and smile back.

  “I’d say thank you,” I blush, but then point my finger at him. “But you’re still buying my dinner.”

  “You’re on,” he says. “Salads are cheap!”

  “Yeah, well tonight, I’m ordering lobster,” I say. “I don’t even know if they serve lobster at Sally’s, but whatever’s expensive, I’m getting it.” Ty nods and winks at me, but he doesn’t say no to any of my requests. I don’t want to stab him anymore.

  We can tell just by walking up to the parking lot that Sally’s is packed. It’s a fish fry. Fish fries in Oklahoma seem weird to me. I’m not sure where they get the fish from, but the smell is pretty much all-consuming. And it only vaguely smells like fish. My luck, of course, the fish-fry all-you-can-eat ticket is the most expensive thing on the menu, so it’s what Ty orders for me before I can even ask. I add a glass of Pinot Gris onto my order just to be a bitch, but Ty high-fives me for being a good sport, so my comeback feels thwarted before it even has a chance at wings. And I’m pretty sure the Pinot was trucked in and came out of a box.

  “Wow, I never thought I’d see the day my sister ate fried fish,” Cass says, slinging her arm around me and pulling me over to one of the outdoor benches set up for tonight’s big crowd. I feel like I should be in overalls. I would rock overalls.

  “Oh, I’m not eating any of it. I’m going to let it sit in front of me to piss him off,” I smirk.

  “He’ll just start picking off your plate; trust me,” Cass says.

  I laugh, and Cass nudges me when we get into our seat.

  “You like him,” she says. I know she’s talking about Ty, but the universe is cruel and the second she makes her joke, Houston walks out of one of the side doors of the restaurant, carrying a tray of food—enough food for two.

  My initial hope is that he’s here with Leah. But then the fact that we’re at a bar smacks me in the chest, and my heart starts to squeeze. Too much time has passed since Cass spoke, which only makes her follow my gaze to see what’s distracting me. What’s pulling me is the dark-haired guy with perfect arms across the room. “Ohhhhhh,” she starts to tease. She stops as soon as she looks back at me and sees my eyes are down in my lap, my lips tight.

  “I was talking about Ty,” she says, coughing.

  “I know,” I smile, ra
ising one side of my mouth. I pick up my plastic cup of wine and chuckle at the absurdity of it, then take a slow sip, begging myself to look in any direction but the one he’s moving in.

  But I’m weak.

  And Houston stops three tables away from me, a very tall, very pretty brunette sitting across from him. She’s in scrubs, which means she probably has a job, which means she also probably has her shit together. I hate that a little…a lot.

  “I loves me a fish fry!” Ty says, pushing up to our table, Nate and Rowe carrying their own trays behind him.

  He’s loud and recognizable, which makes Houston look in our direction. Our eyes meet almost instantly, and for a second, it’s just as it is every time we see each other through a crowd, through the windows of the library, across a street—we hold up a hand and acknowledge the other one exists, and then we continue being chicken shits and going about our pathetic lonely days.

  I’m almost fine with that being how things go, until the laugh…and the hair-flip—then the girl with him says something she finds so unbelievably hilarious that she is compelled to grasp his arm with her hand.

  I’m out of my seat before my brain has time to catch up to what I’m doing. I’m a fast thinker, though. At least when it comes to words coming out of my mouth. Somehow, I’ll say just the right thing.

  “Pa…Paige,” he stutters. Great. He’s stuttering. This is so cliché.

  “Hey, Houston. So, this your hot date?” That’s seriously what comes out of my ever-loving mouth. I bluff my way through, and pretend I’m chewing gum, when really I’m only gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I realize too late that I’ve started this act, so I need to keep it up. I’m standing here, forcing my lips into a smile, knowing I’ve lost most of my lip-gloss on my plastic wine cup, and I’m literally eating myself from the inside.